Hiding Behind Memories
by emsaduem
Summary: Rose has finally begun the road to recovery, taking on field-work for Torchwood. An undercover job, however, brings her face-to-face with the stubborn, world-famous Sherlock Holmes. He brings back memories of a dark past Rose was trying to escape. Slowly, the rivalry turns into a friendship, which may become something more... Post-Doomsday. Before Sherlock Season 1. Roselock.
1. Chapter 1

It was barely seven on a chilly Saturday morning, with most of London comfortably tucked in bed, dosing. At this time, however, a certain self-proclaimed consulting detective was frantically pacing in his flat on Baker Street. Books and pictures littered the carpeted floor as well as the two chairs before the fireplace. A tense and stressed atmosphere clung to the living room, in which Sherlock Holmes, the world-renown detective, was working in. For the third time today, Sherlock paused in front of the most recent picture, make an aggravated noise, and move on. He resembled an art-lover who just entered the Louvre for the first time: desperate to see each picture but still leave time to digest it and appreciate each painting.

Mrs. Hudson silently climbed up the stairs, hoping Sherlock had fallen asleep last night. When his form became visible in the doorway, pacing in and out of view, Mrs. Hudson sighed heavily. Shaking her head and tsking under her breath, she slipped past Sherlock and into the kitchen. The table's mess was mostly confined around the microscope, giving the landlady some space for once.

"Good morning, Sherlock," she said as she cleared the counter and dug out the kettle from the sea of rubbish. Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement, too deep in his work.

They worked in silence, Mrs. Hudson waiting for the kettle by preparing a single cup and two saucers, one with milk, the other with tea, and Sherlock wracking his mind for answers. The sun continued to rise outside as the streets began to fill up with families and couples, lazily and slowly heading out for breakfast.

"Tea's ready," Mrs. Hudson announced. It was met with another grunt form Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson moved everything onto a wooden tray and began to move it into the living room, careful to avoid him. Knowing her job was done, she headed back into the kitchen, intent on making herself a cuppa.

Sherlock gazed at the back wall, where he had tacked on a map, pictures, addresses, and autopsy reports. Some extra detailed photos were scattered in somewhat organized section of the room. He was searching for a connection between these murders. The obvious one was the date and location. Each one happened on a Monday, outside the library, indicating the same murderer (or group of murderers, Sherlock reasoned) was involved. Sherlock had less than three days to solve the case before someone else died. The cause of death, however, varied.

Molly had typed up the first two autopsy reports, but the most recent one was still being made. Lestrade, being the thick prick he is, didn't invite Sherlock to the crime scene, leaving him to build off of nothing but photos. He was able to make basic deductions, but going off of only one sense left Sherlock feeling… slow.

The first victim, George Swort, was a middle-aged, working class man. From the pass card on his breast pocket, it was in the field of construction. The dark-circles under his eyes indicated family issues that left him exhausted. He had no kids and an alcoholic wife. The deductions ended there. Although the pictures were good, they lacked the detail Sherlock used to base his knowledge off of. The cause of death, however, was quite obvious. A quick, powerful, and _beautiful_, cut, if Sherlock could say so, himself. It would have to have been performed by a skilled assassin, who definitely didn't forget to take his weapon with him. George's worst criminal offense was a parking ticket. His hobby, Sherlock was able to find, was mostly revolving around electronics. This day and age, whose doesn't?

The second victim's pile was suspended on the mirror over the mantel. The picture portrayed another man, Andrew Lozban, on the pavement, a few mere inches from the first victim's location. This man was in his mid-sixties. It was easy to see he was a war veteran, and by quickly hacking into Lestrade's files, that deduction was confirmed. White, wispy hair outlined the former soldier, whose eyes were wide open and glassy. Many would say it sent a shiver down their spine, but Sherlock had already spun his attention to the autopsy report being held down by the skull. Although he had it memorized, Sherlock flipped to the first page and began scanning. The death was inflicted by many bullets, performed by an amateur. The weapon, however, was silenced, for no one in the library claimed to have heard it. The handgun could have been stored in a jacket pocket, thus making it another missing weapon. Unlike George, the detective noted Andrew had few files other than the basics: enough not to bring suspicion to himself. He also had no immediate family.

Sherlock gave a sigh, and plopped down onto his chair. The first two victims held potential, but lacked detail. They would have been easy to solve, if the third one wasn't completely different. The victim was female, still a college student. Her name was Clare Floreg, and she lived in a small apartment in downtown London. She frequented the library as well as the café across the street. She was found against the back wall of the same alleyway George and Andrew were found in. She obviously saw her attacker, and tried (but failed) to make a getaway. Sherlock, thankfully, did get to go to this crime scene. There were no physical wounds, but also no signs of poison. She was in perfect health, except for the pale tint in her skin. Her laptop bag was slung over her shoulder, but held no such device. This would have been Sherlock's next step, but first he required the autopsy report. The laptop's location would be tricky to narrow down, but the dumpsters and garbage of the immediate area would be a good stepping stone in the investigation.

These deductions were the most important ones. Sherlock could easily name details, including their dominant hands, where they lived, their ancestry and culture, or even their social status, including affairs, or even hobbies. For now, Sherlock mused, they were useless. Once the autopsy report was complete, he could finally begin the exhilarating quest for the serial killer. The case may be frustrating, but the thrill overwhelmed and overshadowed the stress. _Patience…_

Sherlock slammed his fist on the table, upsetting the tea in the tray, spilling some onto the wooden tray. Mrs. Hudson looked up in alarm to find him taking deep and steadying breaths. His eyes were closed, fists clenched.

"Oh, dear…" Mrs. Hudson muttered, preparing for the worst.

Sherlock surprised her by slowly standing, and headed towards the window. With precise and calculated moves, Sherlock picked up his violin. After plucking it and tuning it, he placed the violin under his chin and lifted up the bow with his right hand. The detective stared out the window at the street, closed his eyes, and let his fingers make the tune.

The melody was unexplainable, but beautiful. The notes wafted through the air, pouring out of Sherlock as if it was his very soul. The song was slow, but desperate as well. It felt like the song was itching to speed up and get to the loud and finalizing crescendo. Reigning in his emotions and music, Sherlock plunged deeper, his bow digging into the strings. The world was moving, but he was suspended, a fixed point with no end or beginning. Sherlock was absentmindedly playing, in reality deep in his mind palace, safe but stressed. Mrs. Hudson smiled and leaned back in her chair, her tea all but forgotten.

Sherlock's performance was cut off by his mobile's chime. Without missing a beat, Sherlock gently lowering his violin onto the desk, and reached into his trouser pocket. Skilled fingers flew over the screen, only pausing to allow Sherlock to read the text. A wide smile bloomed on his face before he stowed the phone into his pocket.

"Sherlock…?" Mrs. Hudson began to ask.

"Busy!" he called back, racing around the room.

Mrs. Hudson was about to snap at him, but he already gathered everything he needed, folded it, and stuffed it into his coat pocket, donning the article of clothing in the process. The blue scarf followed and soon Sherlock was ready.

"Where are you going?!" Mrs. Hudson called after Sherlock as he raced out of the flat at break-neck speeds.

She got up from her spot and peered out of the doorway. All she could see was the tail of his coat as he turned the corner. Her question was ignored. She sighed and walked back to the coffee table to pick up Sherlock's tea, which still lay untouched.

**Hey guys! I know I said I would post this up by the end of April, but standardized testing quickly got in the way of that. So, I'm testing out this story. Do you guys want more? If so, leave a review saying so! This story has already been plotted out, so I will never have any serious cases of writer's block for it that I have experienced from my other stories. I'm very excited, so please let me know what you think! If it gets a good response, the next chapter should be up by next week.**

**Let me just thank SquirrelWho, TheTempestTime, and TheWhealWeaves (I apologize if I spelled your names improperly) for inspiring me. I see that many of you have updated, and I am trying to find time for me to read them. I hope you enjoy my own Roselock fanfic. I apologize if I incorporate anything that may seem like it came from your fanfics! They are wonderful and beautiful.**

***takes deep breath* Well, I'll end my rant here. So, read on and the story is on!**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2-

With the door slammed firmly shut, Sherlock shot forward on the sidewalk. A couple and an old man had to side step the tall man barreling to a cab that seemed to pull up to the curb as soon as he walked out the flat. Often, it seemed cabs were magically _attracted _to Sherlock. A flick of his wrist and all of the cab population a two mile radius come racing to him. In one smooth movement, as if it was part of a choreographed dance, Sherlock slid into the cab. He spared only a glance at the cab driver to tell him the address of the hospital before settling into his seat. Unlike his usual routine of deducing the past, present, and (occasionally) the future of the poor cabbie, he held a staring contest with the window. He didn't look through it, but at the actual clear material, as if it held the answers to all his questions. _That is preposterous. Windows can't answer questions,_ Sherlock mentally chastised himself as his mind became poetically inclined. The cab pulled up to its destination, the jolt of the brakes fishing the detective form his reverie. Sherlock leaped out of the cab, throwing a few bills at the driver. To those who were truly interested, he won the staring contest.

With long, confident strides, he entered the building and climbed into the nearest elevator without saying so much as a 'hello' to the secretary that has been working for five years at the hospital. And although the man may have the best observation skills known to man-kind, he lacks the intelligence to use the skill in a social situation. The woman's name was Connie, which was written on the nametag she sported. Yet, when Sherlock was forced to seek out Molly or Lestrade in the hospital, he tended to ignore and snap at the poor secretary manning the desk when she attempted to point him in the right direction. Her name tended to switch from Connie to 'low-life of the human race' when Sherlock was involved. Either way, she always made sure to wave her hand when the rude man passed.

The secretary that met Sherlock when he stepped out of the elevator and into the morgue, however, did catch his attention. She was new and young. She was, also, warned by Molly about a particular tall, dark-haired detective that tended to forget his manners (if he possessed any).

A quick, methodical scan of the man's dark eyes revealed nothing of importance. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a pony-tail, which tended tilt to the right, indicating a right-handed writer. Being so young and new to the job, she was obviously a recent college graduate. Nothing truly astounding: Best of her class in University of Michigan. She was so obviously American, it was sickening. The phone perched on her desk was protected by a case painted with a British flag. May as well wear a sign saying, "Hello! I am trying to fit in!"

To punctuate his annoyance, Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved through the doors. The glass window showed Molly handing Lestrade a cup of coffee and nodding her head as someone spoke. _Hold on. Lestrade wasn't speaking…_

Sherlock shoved the door open. The cool air-conditioned air streamed towards him, blowing his jacket back. Lestrade rolled his eyes at the dramatic display. The detective just _needed_ to make an entrance. Sherlock, however, didn't pay any attention to the sandy-haired man, nor the mousy girl beside him. He proceeded to march up to the blonde woman examining the body. Her eyes widened as she backed off, her hands raised in a defensive gesture.

"Hey there!" She exclaimed, a scowl toying at the corners of her lips. "Is he always like this?" she asked, her question directed towards Lestrade

"For God's sake, Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed angrily. "Can you _not_ scare away all our new employees?"

Sherlock hadn't budged, but a scowl now dominated her face. She had short blonde hair, with brown roots betraying the bleached hair. It looked like it was done at home, while her nails and haircut indicated and expensive salon. Her make-up was simple, although the mascara and concealer around her eyes held the telltale signs of insomnia. Unlike most of Lestrade's coworkers, she wore a simple wool jacket over a tank top and jeans. A costume made for someone expecting movement. Considering most of the police staff over-dressed and restricted their movement, this woman obviously knew what she was getting herself into. Her figure was petite, but not model-skinny. Anorexia is obviously not the reason for her insomnia. The sweater was tight enough to show the detective developed muscles. Although the fabric made her look slightly larger than she is, Sherlock was sure the muscles weren't from work-outs, but from physically demanding work. Her face was familiar, making Sherlock's fingers itch with irritation. He _always_ remembered a face. She couldn't have been older than her early-twenties, but while her eyes were bright, they were only protecting the pain inside.

Something about her was… _off._

"Sherlock Holmes, meet Rose Tyler. Rose Tyler meet Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade announced weakly, waving his hand in indication to whom he was speaking to, while his temples were being massaged with his other hand.

"It's a pleasure," she politely answered, nodding her head and holding out a hand., which Sherlock decidedly ignored and instead narrowed his eyes.

"Rose Tyler?"

"The one and only."

"The Vitex Heiress?"

A sigh.

"Yes."

"Hmm."

Bells went off in Sherlock's head as newspaper headlines flashed in front of his vision. Gossip column overflowing with talk of 'the lost Vitex Heiress.' He remembered rolling his eyes, and shoving the information away for future reference. Thankfully he did. Sherlock had dismissed the girl as a simple and mudane gossip that would blow over. Eventually, she did.

He may have finally remembered who she was, but that uncomfortable itch in his mind remained. It was as if an alien aura surrounded the new detective, and Sherlock only hated one thing more than not remembering a face: not knowing.

Her background as described in the articles were weak. At that time, it hadn't interested him, but meeting the daughter of Pete Tyler was something completely different. She didn't have the air of a heiress. Rose looked like she had to work to get somewhere in life. Her slightly ruffled clothing and worn heel of her flats indicated a recent period of commuting. Since a taxi receipt was tucked into her trouser pocket, and the insides of her hands were slightly imprinted with a class polka dot pattern, Sherlock's best guess was a recent move. The only logical move would be _away_ from her home. _Interesting…_

"Now that we're finished with the unnecessary pleasantries, can you send your secretary away, Lestrade? We have actual work to accomplish on the case. God knows your detectives would be useless without me."

"Sherlock…" Lestrade growled under his breath, sending a worried glance towards the newest detective. She, however, blatantly ignored the comment.

Sherlock glared at her as she ignored him. She thought he was some simple minded human who she could _joke_ with? Rose seemed so comfortable with his personality. He practically marched up to her, glared daggers into her brown eyes, which remained steady against his chilling, peppermint blue eyes. He was a sociopath, and no one liked him. Sherlock preferred it that way.

"Sherlock? Were you listening?" Molly asked, the first thing she asked that day.

The man in question glared at the ground like a child and mumbled an excuse. Both girls cracked simultaneous grins while Lestrade moaned in frustration. With that, the Molly and the DI leaped into their explanation of the autopsy report, which Sherlock rudely swiped form Rose, before scanning it briefly. Before Molly could even take a pause, Sherlock was already swooping down on the body on the table like a hawk.

Molly's voice drifted off as she shrugged. She was used to being cast off like a tool. This was Sherlock she was talking to, she reminded herself, mentally chastising her silly heart for leaping to the conclusion Sherlock reciprocated those feelings. Rose sent her a sympathetic look, as if she knew what she was feeling. With a sigh, Molly headed off to the body to uncover it and allow Sherlock to examine it. Lestrade and Rose clustered around the table and peered down at the teen girl.

'Can someone remind me why this amateur detective is allowed in a morgue on her first day?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

Everyone's heads shot up. Lestrade opened his mouth to comment, but a quite upset and frazzled blonde beat him to it.

"Amateur? I may be _new_ but that doesn't automatically mean I am suddenly below you!" she practically screeched. "I don't care if you were personally chosen by the queen for being the best detective because I was _allowed_ to come and if _His Royal Highness_ is not satisfied, then he can go throw a tantrum in his room and solve the mystery of why the universe doesn't revolve around him!"

The tension in the room was visible as Rose glared at a shocked detective. Well, what most assumed to be shock. For once, his mouth was closed and his body was stiff. With a '_humph'_ Rose whipped around and staked off to the desk to review the notes. Lestrade and Molly warily followed her, leaving Sherlock to contemplate this new bit of information. Sherlock, being the skilled cocky detective he was, prided himself in never being surprised, and this situation was no different. The provocation of the new girl was merely for experimental reasons, in which his hypothesis was confirmed. Bipolar disorder possibly stemming from depression. No, not possibly.

Surely.

**Thank you guys so much for your kind reviews! I'm so excited! When I saw ****_SQUIRRELWHO freaking followed and reviewed on my story,_**** I nearly emitted a high-pitch, girly scream. So, hats off to you, and my other fellow Roselock writers. Please let me know what you guys think of my portrayal of Sherlock. He's slightly different, because he hasn't met John. His friendship with John (and future relationship with Rose) will prove to change his personality. Obviously, by not much, for he's a large jerk when the TV Show first kicks off. So, yeah.**

**Oh! On a separate announcement, I'm not going to update this one for... maybe... a week? Ten days? I want to update ****Ascend********and plan out a few chapters for my other stories, which you should check out.********And this is to the guest that reviewed: thanks!**

**Reviews are much appreciated! So, read on and deduce for fun. (wow that one sucked).**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3-

The day was kick-started with the drone of the alarm clock on Rose's nightstand. She roughly shut off to avoid waking her brother, who was resting in the room next door. The electric clock read 5:45. With a lazy yawn, Rose rolled off the bed, landing on her feet. With the back of her hands, she rubs the sleep and nightmares from the inside of her eyelids. Nightmares tended to haunt her nights; it was better to pretend that nothing was going on.

Within half an hour, she was in the pristine, white kitchen, with the paper in one hand and toast in another. Her dad was already shuffling around, mumbling under his breath about the lack of coffee in the house. Every few minutes, he would remind Rose of _'the point of the job_' and _'to report suspicious activity immediately.'_ Rose would roll her eyes and bite in the buttered bread. She finished her breakfast, and upon doing so, went back into her bedroom to pack up the last of her belongings. Although it was just a job (one she was used to receiving from Torchwood), she believed it was high to time to buy a flat in the heart of London. Suburban Cardiff may have the open and wealthy mansions, but Rose was never comfortable living off of her father's money.

At 6:30, her parents stood at the door as a pre-ordered cab pulled into the drive. Jackie Tyler held a quite confused Tony Tyler, who had been awakened from his sleep, despite Rose's attempts to ensure otherwise. The moment, however, was not wasted, for he had run off from his mother the second she put him down, toddling about the house. It may have been amusing, but it delayed Rose's departure by another five minutes. With a slight, audible sigh, Rose tapped her foot on the stone walkway.

"Right," Jackie said, rushing to say her farewells to her daughter. And just like that, Rose's mother began to blubber, as if her daughter was not moving a few miles, but halfway across the world. Then again, in this family, that distance often seemed miniscule.

With a kiss to every member of her family, Rose walked to the cab, one that had already been loaded with her luggage. The cab pulled out, and raced onto the road, heading east towards London. Her flat was there modest, only containing two rooms, with a bed taking up most of the first room. A kitchen was pressed against the wall, while a small dining table sat below a low-hanging light fixture. The second room contained a bathroom. Her parents demanding to buy her something more befitting for 'the Vitex Heiress,' but she kindly turned down their offer. She checked her mobile for the time. Although it was a Saturday, she was going to simply try out her new job. Learning the ropes early on would benefit Rose immensely. It almost shocked her she would be working in New Scotland Yard.

A familiar thrill of excitement pumped through her veins, making Rose feel skittish in the confined cab. Thankfully, they had entered the beautiful city of London. It was almost identical to the one in her old universe. The Cybermen incident, as well as the zeppelins, had been wiped from the memory of most Londoneers. Her flat was about another five minutes away. She was making great time, for it was only 6:46, and she was due to clock in at the Yard at 7:00. The detective inspector, Lestrade (she had smirked at the odd, familiar name), had given her some leeway on her first day, but she made it a goal to arrive punctually.

While lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice her flat looming into view on the street until she was pushed violently to the right by the harsh parallel parking skills of the driver. Rose carried her luggage into her flat, paid the cabbie a little extra to wait for her, and began to unpack the necessities for her work day, those largely consisted of some Torchwood instruments, and her cell phone. After shoving the bags semi-neatly against a wall, Rose headed off to HQ.

Halfway through her trip across London, she received a text from Lestrade, instructing her to come to an address, which was attached. The cabbie huffed impatiently, but altered their course nonetheless. She responded to the text, assuring Lestrade that she would arrive and _yes, she would be there in five minutes _ and _no, she wasn't in the mood for coffee._

Finally, she arrived at her ultimate destination, which was St. Bartholomew's Hospital. When all payments for the extended journey were accounted for, Rose exited the vehicle. With confident, but restrained strides, she entered the building. She waved to a woman and said good morning, who's name tag said 'Connie.' She offered to show me the morgue, where Lestrade had asked her to show me to. I thanked her, and allowed the plump woman to lead me down the hallway and into the elevator.

"Lowest button, dearie," she suggested, indicating with her fingers.

"Thank you, Connie," she said, as she stepped into the elevator. She pressed the button and felt the change of gravity as the elevator moved downward. Luckily, no one was sharing it with Rose, allowing her time to gain the professional composure expected of her.

The doors open, revealing a dank (but sterile) hallway. Abruptly before her, were a set of double doors. She proceeded to them, opening them carefully, as if her brother was sleeping inside. A small hallway stood between Rose and the actual morgue, which was clearly labeled by a sign. In between, pressed against the left side was a young intern, scribbling furiously on a sheet of paper.

"No visitors," she robotically answered, as if she memorized the line.

"I'm Rose Tyler, and Lestrade sent me here," she countered.

The girl looked up, her auburn hair escaping the pony-tail. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she immediately jumped up in surprise.

"Oh, yes. I'm sorry!" she apologized. Her accent was obviously American.

"No problem. I'm new as well." Rose gave the stuttering girl a smile. She paused. "How did you know that?"

"Well, for one-" Rose began, but was cut off by the doors swinging wide open.

Lestrade strode in and grabbed her by the arm. "Oi!"

"Sorry, Rose, but I need you in here, now!" Lestrade nearly begged, dragging her into the morgue. Rose weakly waved at the auburn girl as the doors closed behind her.

"Where have you been?" Lestrade demanded.

Rose looked surprised at his harsh tone. "Excuse me?"

"And your-" only to be cut off by a small hand on his shoulder.

A girl in a lab coat, no older than Rose, was giving Lestrade a stern look.

"Sorry about him. He tends to get tense when Sherlock comes along," she explained, maneuvering the detective into a metal chair.

"Sherlock?" Rose asked, a smirk playing at her lips.

"Yeah," Lestrade growled. "Sherlock bloody Holmes. I hate asking for his help, the egotistical bastard. But in a case like this, I'lI need the genius."

Rose was staring blankly at him. The detective had just casually tossed around the name of the most world-renown detective as if it was a common name, such as John.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Rose asked, a teasing grin forming on her face. "As in the resident of 221B Baker Street, consulting detective?"

Lestrade nodded, quirking an eyebrow at the odd sentence. "Why? Do you know him?"

Rose burst out laughing and gasped between the waves of laughter: "Who… doesn't…. know…him?"

A look passed between the doctor and the detective. Both had slightly confused expressions as they turned back to the newest member of the crew. Rose immediately straightened out.

Knowing what she knew, Rose dared to ask, "Have you ever heard of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?"

The duo shook their heads. "Are we supposed to?"

That was new. A universe that had living fictional characters. Either that, or those two were raised under rocks. She would be sure to research the newly found information when she would return to her flat. Shrugging off the odd predicament, Rose walked over to the cadaver.

"So why did you want me to come down here again?" Rose asked, pulling out the autopsy report propped casually against the body.

"We have had a recent stream of murders, and it seems…" he began, only to be interrupted by the double doors swinging open violently to reveal tall, dark-haired detective.

**Sorry for the giant gap in updates. I'm currently working on ****The New Addition****, and hope to finish it the weekend. Then again, I just downloaded this cool game, and tomorrow is Father's day...**

**Speaking of which, I wish you the best Father's Day! Make sure your father feels special and loved when his proudest achievement, fatherhood, is celebrated. My dad and I, being children at heart, are going to see How to Train Your Dragon 2. YAY! I'd like to thank him (although he doesn't read my fanfictions) for being awesome, and supportive. Although we fight and disagree, your philosophies have paved my road to success.**

**I'd also like to thank my beta, Lady Cocoa, for bearing with me and my awkward updates. So, read on and yay fathers (screw rhymes!)**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4-

Currently, the said dark-haired man was childishly hogging the autopsy report, making it impossible for Rose to read anything other than a few small excerpts. His green eyes leapt across the page quickly than eyes should have been able to move, taking in everything as Rose struggled to piece together the information the document was supposed to provide from the few sentences she was able to glimpse. This little puzzle, however, was only delaying her ability to help Lestrade with the case. Plus, the sheer strangeness of the body practically screamed ëI died from alien activity!í Coming in on Saturday proved to have its benefits.

The autopsy report was finally released from Sherlockís death grip, allowing Rose to snatch it from him. He sent her a dark glare, almost possessive, and sulked into a chair on the opposite side of the cadaver. Leaning into its metal back, he moved his fingers into a steeple position, seeming to sink deep in thought.

The resemblance he bore to the Sherlock Holmes from her universe was uncanny. Although his didnít look like any popular actor of the character, he did fit into the name. The way his green, nebula-colored eyes took in the tiniest of details. Lestrade was just barely able to contain him. Holmes was so desperate to show off his genius to her, but the DI had more important things than ëflirting.í Rose had rolled her eyes at this as Sherlock mumbled death threats under his breath.

The autopsy report showed an odd cause of death: an overload of radiation in the body. Considering she was just in a library, and before that, a friendís house, it was impossible for her to acquire such extreme levels of radiation.

_And so the plot thickens._

Molly had already left to grab everyoneís coffees, even though Rose insisted she was fine without any hot beverages. Rose grabbed her laptop and pulled up a map of London. She pinpointed the location of the library, beginning to examine any possible ways that the attacker could have killed the victims. Their reports were stapled to the autopsy, allowing the new detective to pin their homes and jobs. No specific pattern popped up, so Rose only had one choice: to dive in deeper.

"I think we should interview the third victimís mother," Rose suddenly said, looking up from the bright glare of the computer screen.

Without even looking at her, Sherlock replied, "No. Thatís stupid."

"Alright," Rose answered calmly. ëThen whatís _your_ genius idea,_detective?_"

Sherlock glanced up, his eyes flashing angrily. Lestrade watched from his perch on a three-legged stool, amused. He found their bickering quite entertaining; Rose seemed to _enjoy_ the little banter. It was a first. Arguing with Sherlock was similar to convincing his toddlers to eat their vegetables. (Futile.)

Sherlock glared at her, his annoyance evident. The murder was too perfectly-executed. No cell phone or any form of clue was left behind. The scene was wiped clean, sparkling and perfect. Cases like this came around rarely, and though Sherlock usually enjoyed a challenge, something as dead-ended as this bothered him.

"Fine," he growled angrily.

Lestrade shot Rose an incredulous look, shocked. Few people had ever been able to convince Sherlock to do anything against his will _this_ quickly. That girl was more persuasive than a dirty multi-millionaire business-owner trying to rip off even more people.

Rose popped off her chair and grabbed her lavender jacket. As she shrugged it on, she asked, "Is it possible to visit the crime scene?"

Sherlock shook his head as he followed the womanís example. "I didnít miss anything."

_Pompous _and_ handsome. Rings a bell doesnít it?_ Rose almost shook her head fondly, but quickly caught herself. If Sherlock was _anything_ like the fictional character, he would be quick to deduce anything off about her.

Indeed, he had noticed the odd flash of familiarity that jumped across Roseís eyes whenever she looked at him. Beneath the warmth of them, however, lay something dark and dangerous. He knew tapping into it would require more than deduction skills. Luckily, his persuasion skills are just as useful.

This woman had seen something both horrible and beautiful. Her age and physical condition, however, made it impossible for her to be military from overseas. However, she had a foreign way about her that the detective couldnít quite put his finger on. Whenever he tried to deduce deeper into her life, it was as if a mental block stopped him.

But he wasnít ever one to get stuck with these type of barriers. Her accent was odd, sometimes catching, as if she had lived in different parts of London throughout her life.

"Of course not," she drawled, thick sarcasm apparent.

He sent her a glare, which she responded with a smile. It was a warm, cozy smile, one you might associate with your mother smiling at you on your first day of school. However, it seemed chipped and worn, a bit too practiced and knowing to be true happiness.

Sherlock followed her to the curb, quickly catching a cab. He slipped in first, remembering from what John told him and leaving room for his accomplice. She beat him to giving the cabbie directions, smiling again at Sherlockís annoyed expression. He glared out the window and crossed his arms, making a point of ignoring her. She, of course, decided to start up small talk.

"Itís quite an honor meeting you, Sherlock," she said airily.

He grunted.

"It seems you are in dire need of a partner. Do you have one?" she asked.

"I need no partner. I work alone."

"Ah. _Now_ youíre speaking."

"Why would you ask that?" Sherlock questioned.

She laughed and waved her hand in a gesture of shooing away the idea. "Just making small talk."

"Well stop it," Sherlock huffed. "Itís utterly boring. I donít do these domestic conversations."

Roseís breath hitched. She covered it up with a cough, but both were well aware of what truly happened. Sherlock tucked the information away in his Mind Palace to take a look at later. This woman was definitely not an open book. She was… interesting, in her own way.

They lapsed back into silence. The cab zoomed through London, jumping in between the back-up cars in order to reach the destination faster.

Tyler lived with her parents in a flat on the outskirts of London. The trip would take slightly longer than usual, but the two occupants of the cab were comfortable in the quiet atmosphere.

The two were jolted out of their thoughts as the cab pulled up to the curb. Before Rose could open her mouth to say that they should split the fee, Sherlock was out and walking briskly to the flatís entrance.

_Looks like Iím paying._

Rose handed the cabbie some notes and followed Sherlock up the (rather small) walkway. They both approached the dull, brown door, and knocked. A woman, dressed for business, it seemed, bustled to the door, gently easing it open.

Although her clothes werenít black, it was quite obvious that she was in mourning. Dark circles highlighted her dull eyes. Heavy make-up attempted to hide the pain of the loss, but both detectives saw through the façade. Her pencil skirt and lacy blouse suggested an office job, or a secretary. In her hands were a small purse and a notebook.

She gave them a rushed once over, and asked, "How may I help you?"

"I need to ask you a few questions," Sherlock briskly responded and, without given invitation, brushed past the startled woman and entered the house.

Rose sighed and shook her head. "I apologize for my partner…." Sherlock grunted in disagreement. "For my partnerís behavior," she finished. "We are with the Yard, and just want to confirm a few things with you, if you have the time."

"Iím sorry, I already told the Yard everything I knew, and I have work-" the woman began.

"Well, the Yard didnít have me then," Sherlock calmly responded, plopping on the couch and examining the room.

"He has a bit of an ego. Avoid complimenting him, his head might get so big that it destroys the ceiling," Rose whispered loudly, making sure Sherlock heard her as well.

The woman smiled weakly. "I guess I can answer a few more questions."

Rose nodded gratefully and followed her into the flat.

Rose took care to sit next to Sherlock, but also to maintain enough distance that their shoulders wonít brush as they interviewed the woman.

The mantel above a nearby fireplace held a tiny memorial for the deceased girl. Pictures of the ginger beauty surrounded an urn, depicting college days, school concerts and her as a toddler at the beach. As Rose plopped onto the couch, she fished for the files she brought with her in her purse and began to give the woman her condolences.

Naturally, Sherlock took it upon himself to retaliate as form of revenge for Roseís earlier statements.

"Mrs. Goldman, Iím sure we wonít inconvenience you, considering youíre already late for work, but weíll try to keep this quick." A stunned expression appeared on Mrs. Goldmanís face. He paused, giving the flabbergasted woman a once-over before diving into deductions. "Of course, it is acceptable to be a bit late, considering your daughterís recent death. Yet, your boss is still making you come to work on the day of the funeral, leaving you only able to go in middle of the service during your lunch br-"

Rose cut him off with a slap on the shoulder. "How about instead of showing off, we actually get some information from her?" She glanced at the trembling woman. "And stop scaring people who just lost only child."

Sherlock shrugged. "Iíd like to see you do better."

Rose sent him glare. "Then sit back and shut your mouth."

As any British person would, Rose immediately went and made the poor woman a warm cup of Earl Grey tea.. Mrs. Goldman gratefully accepted the steaming mug, placing it on the coffee table before her after taking a small sip. Rose altered her sitting location in favor of sitting beside the mourning woman. Rubbing soothing circles on her back, Rose began to softly question her.

"Your daughter died by a library. Why was she there that day?"

Tears pooled in Mrs. Goldmanís eyes as she stared at the ground. "She…. She was a good girl. She was at the library at least once a week, whether it was for school or to check out another book."

"So your daughter didnít do anything unusual before leaving?" Rose asked gently, seeing the womanís composure break away to show the broken interior. You didnít have to be a highly-skilled detective to see her true self now. "She didnít do anything odd or out of the ordinary?"

"No…" she whimpered, attempting to wipe away some of her tears. "My daughter lived the best of both worlds. She was fairly popular and always had weekend outings with her friends. My poor Isabelle had gotten a full scholarship for computer programming…" Sherlockís bored expressions suddenly turned into interest.

"Computer programming?" he asked, leaning forward.

"Yes," Mrs. Goldman replied.

"Interesting…. Did she pend most of her free time on computers and electronic devices?"

Surprise lit up her face. "Now that you mention it, she was extremely fond of her computer. Sometimes, she would just hole up in her room. But Iím sure it was just for studying or chatting with her friends on Facebook and such.. You know how social media has become such a large part of so many peopleís lives."

Sherlock immediately launched into a new question. "Were you aware of what your daughter was doing in the library that day?"

"I-" she began.

"Of course you didn't," he cut off, springing to his feet and pacing. "It was a routine, and parents donít question routines. The library provides quiet… And resources…"

A pause.

"What time did she usually visit the library?"

Mrs. Goldman started, "It was around-"

"But that wouldnít matter… I would need access to the library records… survellience…"

At that point, the detectiveís ramblings dissolved into undecipherable babbling. Rose looked ready to strangle him while the mourning woman felt a severe headache coming on.

With a sigh, Mrs. Goldman mumbled, "I don't think I have anything else to offer."

Rose snapped out of her murderous stupor and nodded in apology. "Of course. Sherlock! Weíre leaving!"

The only sign Sherlock showed of hearing Rose was a small grunt that was lost in his ranting. With an _extremely_ exasperated roll of her eyes, she shoved her jacket on, throwing the black overcoat to Sherlock.

She grabbed his wrist, dragging him out the door. Over her shoulder, she called, "Thank Mrs. Goldman!" and proceeded to deposit the ruffled detective outside the flat. He looked so shocked and shocked that he bore a shocking resemblance to a cat that has had a bucket of water dumped on it.

"I was in my Mind Palace," he said matter-of-factly. "You cannot just interrupt my thinking!"

"Yes, I can," Rose huffed. "Stop acting so high and mighty. Now, since it is a Saturday, I doubt the library will be open for another hour or two…"

"Weíll just break in," he said nonchalantly, as if it were the most obvious solution that could possibly be thought of.

"…so we might as well grab a bite to eat. If I'm correct, there is a nice little coffee shop about five minuteís walk from here."

Sherlock stood stubbornly, his chin turned up. "I'm not going."

"Aw…. Címon!" Rose exclaimed, wiggling her eyebrows.

His response was a look of disgust. "I don't eat."

"Ever?" she said, putting on her best look of alarm. "Thatís astounding! How about we discuss your lack of food consumption over a cop of coffee, huh?"

No response.

Rose sighed and glanced at the ground, defeated. Sherlock's lips had the ghost of a grin on it. However, the victorious smirk was quickly wiped when, out of the blue, Rose snatched his coat sleeve, and began to forcefully drag him down the street.

"You really are a piece of work," he grumbled, a bit surprised at her ability to drag along a man a full half-foot taller than she.

"Wait until I have some coffee."

Sherlock groaned.

**I am back! As the "Doctor Who" Season 8 starts in full swing, I desperately tried to update this chapter. It has been ready for awhile on my laptop. Until, of course, my lovely, brand new computer managed to get a hold of 5 viruses. YIPEEEEEEE. Thus, I had to transfer my data over onto a school laptop and work from there. Now, Iím going to have to email myself this so I can go on my phone and update, so I apologize for any weird symbols. I'm pretty sure something is up with the apostrophe... Sigh.**

**Well that is enough about me! I needed to update the story, even though I was planning to update ****Ascend.**** Pretty much, my favorite Roselock writer, TheWheelWeaves (probably all know her) reviewed my story not once, but twice, as well as following and favoriting my story. I nearly fell off my chair when I was reading it. So thanks a lot for motivating me, and hopefully I can get a new laptop before my next update. Also, thanks Lady Cocoa for beating this chapters the last second. You are amazing! **

**I hope you guys enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. I look forward to the next chapter, which is going to be a fairly awkward coffee shop scene! YAY! Please review, because it honestly makes my day! **

**Read on and DON'T BE LASAGNE. **


	5. Chapter 5

"I'll have some chips and a cup of coffee…. milk, no sugar."

The two detectives were sitting in a booth in a chippy. Rose was contently ordering something to snack on while Sherlock angrily glared at her. The waitress sent a wary look at the tall, but surprisingly attractive man who looked ready to burn a fuse. His cloud of anger was broken through by a question from Rose.

"Wouldyou like something to drink, Sherlock?" she asked, leaning forward across thetable.

Hesent her a look that clearly stated 'Do I freaking _look_ like I want something to drink?' Rose, however, completely ignored said look and turned to the waitress.

"He'll have some coffee too. Black, two sugars,please. And while you're at it, grab hima bagel or something."

The detective had taken to fuming and glaring at Rose as the waitress scribbledtheir order down. Finally, with asatisfied jab at the paper, stumping even Sherlock, for he knew very wellwaitresses and waiters had no need to use proper punctuation, the waitressbegan to back away. As he began to sighwith being ridden of the lower intelligence being, she turned around andglanced at Rose.

"Is your boyfriend always like this?" she asked.

Rose scoffed and Sherlock looked ready to murder her using nothing but the plasticutensil and the condiments on the table. She quickly covered for him and wavedthe question off. The waitress shruggedand finally departed from the table.

With a groan, Sherlock lowered his head onto his folded hands, which he placed onthe dirty table. To Rose, he looked likeher little brother when he was tired. However,unlike Toby, his eyes weren't drooping. Instead, he looked bored senseless. His usually brighteyes looked dull. Rose almost felt sorryfor him. That is, until she snapped outof it, remembering that _all_ geniusesare alike. This one wasn't any more unique than any other one she had ever met. All of them moped and complained, hoping toget sympathy from the 'simpletons.' She,however, was no simpleton.

Two steaming mugs were placed before Sherlock, blocking his view of Rose. He lazily turned his head to the side,spotted the waitress, huffed exasperatedly, and returned to his moping. Rose had gotten a cup as well, as well assome chips and a bagel. She slid thebagel over to Sherlock on a plate along with a plastic knife and some butter. He turned away from it. If he were sitting upright, he would haveturned his nose away in distaste.

Sighing, Rose grabbed the little plastic container of butter and a knife. She beganspooning out little clumps of it and spreading it onto the bagel.

Suddenly, Sherlock was interested. Without drawingattention to himself, he allowed his eyes to carefully examine her hands andthe air she possessed. Her handsskillfully applied the sodium-filled yellow globs to the bagel. The gestures were maternal, but shedefinitely wasn't a mother. _A youngersibling_, Sherlock deduced. Furthermore,she had impressive reflexes, catching any stray butter. To test them, he gently nudged the ketchupbottle that was uniformly placed in the center of the table until it began totip over. Rose glanced up, her handlashing out the grab the tipping container. Without Sherlock's consent, his eyes widened shock, something that Rosedid not miss.

_That sneaky…._

Rose shook herself, and continued to work on the bagel. If she were to fall into histraps, he would find out far too many things far too quickly. The last thing that she needed was a curiousSherlock poking through alien technology and investigating interstellarcrime. Even Slitheens would cower intheir quaint home planet of Raxicoricofallapatorius.

Finally, with a satisfied _humph_, she placed the bagel before Sherlock, fully buttered and ready to be devoured. His scowland disgusted expression, however, did not fit a person who was ready to devoura perfectly buttered bagel.

"You have a younger brother," Sherlock stated simply, purposefully avoiding the food.

Trying to remain neutral, Rose nodded, glancing at the table. "And you have an older one," she answeredcasually.

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise and shock. Howcould his moping and complaining given away his siblings? Rose was just another stupid intern; how could she _deduce?_

The woman in question, however, was smiling smugly at his expression. She was, mentally, scrambling to rememberwhat little else he had read of _SherlockHolmes_ in her old universe. It wassurprising that the information from his books actually existed in thisworld. Nonetheless, the information wasfleeting, and she was sure she would be unable to pull another stunt like that. She wasn't even sure where Sherlock lived atthis time; the books never mentioned where he lived before he met John.

"Excuse me?" he demanded.

"You heard me," Rose replied, leaning on her knuckles. "You have an older brother."Pompously, she added, "Mike…. Mickey….. Mycroft?"

Sherlock looked absolutely dumb-founded. Who _was_ this woman? Only one way to find out.

"Yes. His name is Mycroft," he finally managed tosay. "What about your brother?"

Rose immediately saw through his plan. He waswell known for his deductions, and she would be forced to choose her answersquite carefully.

"His name is Toby. He's going to turn fouryears soon," she replied, grabbing one her chips and biting into it.

"Toby. Born in London?"

"Of course."

"Hmm."

She casually took a sip of her coffee, allowing the caffeine to soothe her racingmind. The ominous 'hmm' could meananything. He could be leading heron. Or he might have already figured outshe was technically a foreigner. _Staycalm. Being foreign doesn't mean you arefrom a parallel universe…._

Sherlock, meanwhile, was taking in Rose's outfit. It was fairly plain, formal enough for work, yet loose enough ofmovement. Nothing special. But the careful choice showed his skilledeyes that Rose was used to this job. Odd, considering she had just started the job, and she didn't look oldenough to have had another career. Everything about her, from a casual glance, indicated normality. However, there were but two oddities that maybe the clues to solve this epigamic rose: a key she wore on a simple, silverchain, and an odd bracelet on her wrist. Both definitely did not match with her outfit, but Sherlock was not oneto judge… well, in the normal sense. Instead, he slightly scrunched his eyes to geta better glimpse of the jewelry. Thenecklace's key was unfamiliar to the expert locksmith who could pick almost anylock in London. Its etched design wascomplex, each curve of the containing its own grooves, with tiny, almostunnoticeable runes scrawled across. Somehow, Sherlock doubted it was just a nick-knack.

The bracelet, looked exactly like any charm bracelet. Its charms were plain but simultaneously oddand out of place. Each charm waspainstakingly made, too perfect to be made by any jeweler. Sherlock suddenlyfelt extreme irritation for his lack of knowledge of jewelry..

The charms that were visible on her wrist included a little spaceship, the Olympicrings, a screwdriver, a medicine kit, and a torch. The bracelet was obviously custom made; noregular charms were this odd. Instead ofopening up some secret portion of her life, it instead only confused him. He tried to run through his _extremely_ limited knowledge of symbolism.

Rose, though nervous, did not break through Sherlock's quiet brooding. She, instead, finished up her food and began to sip her rapidly cooling coffee. Finally,she grabbed the bagel that was before Sherlock and began to eat it. He didn't acknowledge the consumption of his food. What a pity. The bagel was absolutely delicious.

"Sherlock?"Rose finally asked, breaking through his train of thought.

"Who are you?" was all Sherlock could say.

She froze in shock and horror, but attempted to keep her face composed. Of course, she had her cover story memorized inside an out, but nonetheless, her lack of experience in the field often left her bumbling. Clenching her fists under the table, she casually responded, "I'm Rose Tyler…? What type of question is that?"

"You just arrive out of the blue, being the long lost daughter of Pete Tyler, the supposedly great entrepreneur?" Sherlock demanded.

"_Supposedly?_"

"Copyinga few ideas off the Internet isn't what I would call 'genius.'"

That was how both of the two were kicked out of the diner, parted, both muttering and cursing under their breathes, the library and its surveillance completely forgotten about.

**Hello! I'm back...kinda... I'm busy doing NaNoWriMo (look it up). I'm thankful for all the reviews, favorites and follows I have recieved from this story. I promise to update soon, because guys are just awesome. Reviews and more favorite are welcome :)**

**Read on and Wrimo pun. (Whatever).**


	6. Chapter 6

An old, musky smell hit Rose's nose as soon as she pushed the door open to the library. It was quaint compared to the more, world- famous libraries scattered throughout London. Nonetheless, it was very modern, the outside mostly compromised of glass and steel. The back of it was multi-colored, resembling Tetris. To enter the library, you would have to walk underneath a suspended portion of the building, which looked like an 'L" that had been rotated 90 degrees clockwise. An entryway held a desk, in which a librarian sat, clicking away at her computer. Beady eyes glanced Rose's way before returning to whatever library-related business was more important than patrons.

Back in her school days, Rose remembered coming here fairly often. This alternate-dimension library had lacked some things, though; the mural painted on the right wall was missing and was replaced with cubbies for coats. However, the librarian looked identical to woman who used to offer a 3-year-old Rose Dr. Seuss books with a cup of cocoa. Sure enough, the coffee machine was perched on her desk, along with two empty cups. This woman, though, with mousy, red hair and thin-rimmed glasses, didn't look too welcoming.

Actually, forget "too welcoming". She looked like she would rather stab the pen on her desk in her eye than talk to Rose.

Before checking out the security footage, Rose heading to the left, standing underneath the floor-to-ceiling windows with the main library house in mind. Red carpet paved the road toward the world of literature that so many neglected nowadays. Shelves were scattered about in a disorganized way. The books looked like they followed the Dewy Decimal System, but the shelves looked more like a labyrinth.

To be honest, Rose had never been a big fan of reading. At first, it had been her lack of interest in learning anything. School had never truly been a priority in her mind, which something she had come to regret over the years. Neither fiction nor non-fiction could grab the young blonde's attention; they all seemed like they would result in her saying "Well, that was a waste of time."

Even Jackie, her mother, liked to read. She mostly read erotic bestsellers.

Those just scared and scarred the girl, though. Running off with Jimmy Stone hadn't helped with her nonexistent love of reading. It stayed as dormant, and it probably would forever.

The adventures with the Doctor finally allowed her to appreciate artworks, including classic literature, ranging from _Moby Dick_ to_ ÝaGuna_, popular in numerous planets in the Frikadel'ka

Galaxy. The Doctor had, at first, forced Rose into reading by jumping out of corners every time she refused to, but after travelling with him for a few months, it felt perfectly natural to pick out a book from the TARDIS library after an intergalactic visit. After a long day of saving all of time and space, or visiting some historic event that Rose only remembered the gist of from history class, the two time-travelers would head into the TARDIS library and curl up on their respective armchairs with a book.

The girl's vocabulary wasn't impressive, and thus most books challenged her intellect. The Gallifreyan man, however, was quite content teaching his young companion the ins and outs of literature. He would often go into passionate speeches about his favorite works, or never-ending rants about his absolute _loathing _for Drahvin books. Apparently, they are only competent for writing gardening books.

Every book she ever gotten was in the TARDIS. Every book she had ever gotten was probably still inside the TARDIS. A pang in Rose's heart brought tears to the woman's eyes. After being ripped from the man who showed her the world, the man _she loved_, she could only seek refuge in other worlds. Rose would never leave the house, sunk into a depression, and stayed that way for quite a long time. Mickey would stop by the library, and grab books. She didn't have a preference, as long as time travel and aliens were never mentioned.

Within a few months, she had gone through almost any book that was considered to be classic, old, or both. Those pieces of paper, bound together by wire or string, had saved her life. Mickey, after deciding that her unnatural amount of romance and adventure books read was becoming unhealthy, brought her his personal copy of _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_. It was an old copy, one that the man cherished.

As she read it somewhat reluctantly, Rose remembered the time the Doctor had dragged her to meet the man who inspired the great detective. Little did she know that that Sherlock Holmes was walking on the streets of London, alone, solving modern-day mysteries. When the depression's cold grip had loosened, Rose was able to become part of Torchwood. After rigorous testing, she was put into the field. As soon as a case with detective work came into the light, Rose volunteered and begged her father, practically on her knees, to let her take it. Seeing his daughter so desperate, he allowed her, despite her technically "unstable" condition.

As Rose's eyes skimmed the books, her hand following, the blonde's memories couldn't help but wander into her darker, more literately-involved days. Piles of books belonging to multiple genres had scattered her flat, in piles and mounds at odd, almost gravity-defying angles. One would always be perched on her lap; the turning pages were the only sound ever heard in the flat. With very paragraph, the plot thickened, and Rose drank up every word like a drug.

Shaking her head to clear her head of cobwebs and extra memories, she started down the halls, leaving the cozy reading room behind. She did, however, promise herself to visit it when she was done, just to double-check.

The red-haired woman directed her, with an unconcealed rude tone, towards the security offices in the basement. Rose followed the signs and direction to her destination until she reached a metal door, marking the offices. She could hear indistinct conversations going on from within. From what she could pick out, a female security officer was having an argument with some intruder who "had no right to be below level". Curiously and warily, Rose gently pushed the door open, her hand on her gun. (She really hated those things.)

The room was constructed out of concrete, and was small. _Very_ small. Against the left wall were security cameras and computer monitors, flickering with black-and-white live feed. One showed the lobby in which she had entered, another the stairwell that she had just descended on. The rest showed other portions of the library, ranging from bookshelves to meeting rooms.

Within the green, peeling concrete walls stood two security guards. As suspected, one was a petite female, the other a burly man who's shaggy appearance made it look as if he had a few too many drinks a little too early in the day. He was waving his fist angrily, his other hand on his walkie-talkie, ready to inform his superiors of the security breach.

Rose's hand was now snuggly wrapped around the hilt of her weapon. The offender was hidden from view by the door. The people within hadn't noticed her yet, and had continued their screaming. They did, however, whip their heads around when she pushed the door open. In the corner of the room, looking genuinely surprised, was Sherlock Holmes.

Everyone was stunned when the blonde girl had rammed her way into the security office, especially said girl. Her eyes were trained on the detective, wide with shock.

"Sherlock?" she breathed, confused obvious.

He stared for a moment longer before regaining his composure. With a flourish of his coat that only he could pull off without looking like an idiot, he grabbed Rose and dragged her out of the room, leaving the guards dumbfounded.

"What are you doing here?" he growled under his breath as he plopped the blonde a few feet from the door. "This is _my_—"

Rose was quick to recover and smacked away Sherlock's grip. "Yes, I know. But, see, I have been assigned to this case. Also, I did not storm into the room looking like some sort of dictator demanding to be given his tax pay," she calmly said with one hand on her hip and her gaze unwavering.

He scoffed. "I cannot have some _amateur_—"

"Trust me when I say that I am no—"

"How about a desk job? Why th—"

"How about I stick you and your 'desk jobs'—"

"Why are all woman like—"

"You better watch it, cape-boy!"

Before Rose had a chance to personally gauge out the twat's eyes, the guards rushed out in an attempt to break up the next World War.

"If you don't explain yourselves," the poor woman said, hands trembling, "I will be forced to remove you from the premises."

Sherlock glared daggers at Rose, who was sure that if looks could kill, she would be the victim of a homicide worse than any Jack the Ripper case. Instead, it was just his yellow-green eyes piercing hers, threatening to dig into her soul and rip it out through her nostrils like ancient Egyptians taking their pharaoh's brains.

…But maybe that was a bit dramatic.

Digging through her pocket without breaking eye contact, she pulled out her Scotland Yard badge and displayed it.

"Is he with you?" the man asked, relaxing upon realizing who she was.

"Sadly."

"I, um, see." _Silence._ "Is there anything we can do for you?"

Sherlock piped in, ending the staring contest abruptly: "Yes. Pull up all security footage from October 18…"

And he was off. Ranting off times and dates, correcting the guards' mistakes (rudely) as they attempted to type commands into their computers as fact as the man instructed them to.

Rose had handed the leash to him. It was obviously his element. Solving intergalactic cases was something; homicide was another, something Sherlock was far more skilled in.

And yet, Rose still wished that she not there, but somewhere among the stars…

**Please don't hate me….**

**I know, I know. Months of not updating, and then a ****_filler chapter?_**** Yeah. I know. I'm sorry. I have to get the plot along. It's not just Sherlock deducing and complaining. There is a homicide and romance and cuppas… Well, I am going to work on the next chapter soon. **

**Big thanks to Lady Cocoa! She is my amazing and lovely beta that never fails to amaze me. She gets all credit to witty remarks regarding****Egyptians and wishful thinking. Hop on over to her stories and REVIEW!**

**On a separate note, Happy Holidays. Merry Christmas to those that celebrate, Happy Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, or whatever!**

**Read on and jingle bells!**


	7. Announcement

**Hello! It's me, emsaduem. I'm sorry to get your hopes up if you thought this story was ACTUALLY being updated. Pretty much, I'm currently juggling 4 stories on this account, and another 2 on another account. I'm really sorry, but I'm going have to put two of my stories on hiatus and focus on the other two. I have created a poll on my profile, so go vote so I know which stories to work on! I feel terrible about doing this, but otherwise, my updates will continue to be terribly sporadic. **

**Read on and vote!**


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